“N—­no.”  Taffy felt himself blushing.  “That’s one of the stories that won’t come—­and they’re the loveliest of all,” he added, in a burst of confidence.

Honoria thought for a moment, but did not understand in the least.  All she said was, “what funny words you use!” She went back to her alphabet—­A, house; B, cat.  It came more easily now.

After lessons she made him tell her a story; and Taffy, who wished to be amusing, told her about the “Valiant Tailor who killed Seven at a Blow.”  To his disgust, it scarcely made her smile.  But after this she was always asking for stories, and always listened solemnly, with her dark eyes fixed on his face.  She never seemed to admire him at all for his gift, but treated it with a kind of indulgent wonder, as if he were some queer animal with uncommon tricks.  This dashed Taffy a bit, for he liked to be thought a fine fellow.  But he went on telling his stories, and sometimes invented new ones for her.  George Vyell was much more appreciative.  Sir Harry had heard of the lessons, and wrote to beg that his son might join the class.  So George rode over three times a week to learn Latin, which he did with uncommon slowness.  But he thought Taffy’s stories stunning, and admired him without a shade of envy.  The two boys liked each other; and when they were alone Taffy stood an inch or two higher in self-conceit than when Honoria happened to be by.  But he took more pains with his stories if she was listening.  As for her lessons, Honoria got through them by honest plodding.  She never quite saw the use of them, but she liked Mr. Raymond.  She learnt more steadily than either of the boys.

One day George rode over with two pairs of boxing-gloves dangling from his saddle.  After lessons he and Taffy had a try with them, in a clearing behind the shrubberies where the gardener had heaped his sweepings of dry leaves to rot down for manure.

“But, look here,” said George, after the first round; “you’ll never learn if you hit so wild as that.  You must keep your head up, and watch my eyes and feint.”

Taffy couldn’t help it.  As soon as ever he struck out, he forgot that it was not real fighting.  And he felt ashamed to look George straight in the face, for his own eyes were full of tears of excitement.  At the end of the bout, when George said, “Now we must shake hands; it’s the proper thing to do,” he looked bewildered for a moment.  It made George laugh in his easy way, and then Taffy laughed too.

After this they had a bout almost every day; and he was soon able to hold his own and treat it as sport.  But somehow he always felt a passion behind it, whispering to him to put some nastiness into his blows, especially when Honoria came to look on.  And yet he liked George far better than he liked Honoria.  Indeed, he adored George, and the Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings when George appeared were the bright spots in his week.  Lessons were over at twelve o’clock;